


Boys of Summer

by thesalmondean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 09:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2502863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesalmondean/pseuds/thesalmondean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt: Young Sam thinks he found a case. John won't take him seriously but Dean does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boys of Summer

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime after 9.7 "Bad Boys" (flashbacks), but before 4.13 "After School Special" (flashbacks)

The swings were covered in a layer of dirt and grime, like no one had sat on their black, cracked seats in awhile. There were three swings, but one was broken so with a studied eye, Sam compared the remaining two before lowering himself onto the one that seemed slightly less dirty. As his weight settled he could feel absorbed heat radiate from the seat, through his jeans, warming his body on what was already a brutally hot day.

He’d woken up that morning in yet another no-name motel in yet another no-name town. It looked and felt just like the hundreds – maybe thousands – of other no-name motels Sam had been in over the years. The only difference this time was the presence of the playground. Though it was in disrepair, it was a welcome reprieve from the trappings of the motel room, seemingly identical to everywhere else they’d ever been – threadbare, stained carpet; hard, thin mattresses; lumpy pillows; moldy showers; static television reception; the just barely concealed scent of stale cigarette smoke.

It was August, and school should be starting again soon. For many reasons Sam didn’t enjoy summers like most other kids his age probably did; now that he and Dean were older their dad would take them on more hunts – which Dean loved, and Sam mostly hated. There was a brief moment, when his dad started teaching him to shoot, and began telling him about the various things they would hunt, that he felt excited and anxious to go out with Dean and their dad – but after his first hunt he lost a lot of that romanticism. It was bloody, and messy, and dangerous and Sam didn’t like how it made him feel; he didn’t like being “in on the secret” while everyone around him was oblivious; it made him feel even more apart from everyone else than he already did. And so he started to crave anything that made him feel “normal”, of which school was one.

For the last few years he spent much of his summers simply counting the days until he could feel that normalcy again. This year was no different; he should be starting the eighth grade. But he didn’t know where, and he didn’t know when and whenever Sam tried to ask his dad if he could look into registration for the school year, he would just offer a grunt and shrug his shoulders noncommittally while never answering the question.

Dean was no help either, shrugging his shoulders just like their dad would, but then offering a half apologetic smile. Sam knew Dean didn't like school; but he also knew Dean knew Sam did, there was just little either of them could do about it. It was just the way it was – and Sam thought sometimes their dad probably wished he didn’t need to put them in school at all. But Sam also knew eventually he would. He knew their dad would take a job in some town somewhere and make Sam and Dean enroll. They’d be starting late and they’d be behind but for Sam that was part of the joy. He felt a thrill at playing catch-up and trying to learn as much as he could as fast as he could. He just wanted that feeling back; he craved it, he was ready for it. Hunting never gave him the same joy. Not like he knew it did Dean.

Sam sighed dramatically into the oppressive heat, exhaling and blowing up into his overlong bangs. The soft breeze from his breath was relief against his damp forehead, his thick hair trapping the humid heat there. Sam could feel tiny droplets forming above his eyebrows. He needed a haircut, or at the very least he needed the long fringes of his bangs trimmed back to keep them from falling into his eyes, or more importantly to alleviate the discomfort of a hot and sweaty head.

Sighing again, Sam swatted at the flies buzzing around him, the rusty swing creaking beneath him. It really was a miracle some of the equipment in this tiny playground was still standing and intact, Sam thought as he looked around; there was a metal slide glinting in the afternoon sun (certainly unusable from the heat), a cracked and warped wooden see-saw (certain to give a person splinters just by looking at it), and monkey bars with posts rusted almost as bad as the thick metal legs of the swing set. Sam thought the swing set and the monkey bars might have been a matching red at one point, but it was almost impossible to tell anymore.

The edges of the playground along the fence line were showing signs of overgrowth, grasses and yellow-flowered weeds alive with bees were encroaching onto the gravelly substrate of the small play area. Sam wondered how much more neglect it would take before the little park ceased to be an escape for anyone anymore – he didn’t figure it would be long before it all just fell down and was overgrown.

Exhaling a long breath, Sam began to spin his swing in a tight circle, the rusted chains twisting above him as flakes of rust showered down; his feet kicking up a tiny cloud of gravelly dust as he toed at the ground. Round, and round again. When the swing was twisted tight as it could go Sam lifted his feet off the ground and let himself spin, the chains above him untwisting as more rust flakes fell, until finally the swing righted itself and he stilled.

Sighing again with mounting irritation and frustration, Sam looked up at the brilliant sky. It was so quiet – not a sound anywhere, except for the flies that wouldn’t leave him alone. Sam knew they were somewhere in the Midwest, exactly where he wasn’t sure as he’d been asleep when his dad had pulled into this place. What he did know was there was a lot of humidity; his hair was damp with it and again he thought how nice a haircut would be, wiping at his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand.

Looking around – beyond the edges of the playground – Sam saw the parking lot of the motel was mostly empty save a beater minivan (with Oklahoma plates), and his dad’s Impala. Maybe they were in Oklahoma? Sam thought before wishing he could muster the energy to care.

His dad and Dean were still asleep in the motel room. Sam had left them, the small window A/C unit blasting noisily, when he’d come outside. Or, maybe Dean was up now and cleaning his guns. Though Sam was pretty sure if either Dean or his dad were up they’d have come outside by now to find him. He could barely go anywhere without either his dad or his brother on him.

Suddenly a voice echoed from across the parking lot, catching Sam’s attention. He watched as a tall, thin blond woman led a blond-haired boy out of a room (on the other end of the strip of rooms from where their room was) and towards the beater minivan. The kid didn’t seem thrilled to be going wherever the woman (his mother maybe?) was taking him – he walked with his head hung low and his arms crossed. Sam watched with detached interest as the van backfired when started, kicking out a cloud of black smoke before pulling out of the parking lot and onto the highway heading away from the motel.

Not moments later, Dean’s voice cut through the thick, humid air, calling Sam back inside. 

* * *

 

Later that afternoon, their dad gave Sam and Dean the same lecture he always did every time he left for a hunt – the hunts he didn’t take them on anyway, and those were fewer and farther between as he and Dean got older – but the lecture was always the same, it hadn’t changed in years. No matter how old Sam and Dean were it was always their dad telling them: he wasn’t sure how long he’d be gone; they needed to be careful; Dean, watch out for your brother; Sam, don’t go anywhere without Dean; and so on and so on, blah blah blah.

He left soon after. Sam felt relief at his departure, but then immediately felt guilty for it. Dean, after he’d finished bitching about being left behind again, ordered a pizza and promptly ate half of it, also helping himself to a few of the beers their dad had left in the motel room fridge. Sam just picked at his dinner, feeling sweaty, and dirty, and just generally irritated. It was how he felt more often than not anymore, and he hated it. He wanted to believe there was more to life than what he was seeing; than what his dad was teaching him. He wanted to think he could do more than just live day to day, week to week, in crappy hotel rooms. He had to _know_ there was more to life than that. It was too depressing, otherwise.

Dean noisily smacked his lips, licking his fingers clean of pizza grease before he thumbed the button on the television remote.

“Sweet! The free HBO actually works here,” he grinned at Sam who was staring back at his brother with disdain; sometimes Dean could be so gross.

Nodding, Sam offered a forced half-smile back at his brother. But when Dean settled on watching a noisy, grotesque slasher-flick, Sam had to get out of the room. He wasn’t in the mood for the sights or the sounds and so he found himself wandering back out towards the swing set, but not before Dean had called after him to “stay close”.

The pamphlets in the motel room advertising local real estate and fast food joints told Sam they were on the far western outskirts of Lincoln, Nebraska, and the sun had already disappeared below the horizon as Sam closed the motel room door (but not before giving Dean a noncommittal affirmation that he wouldn’t wander far). The air was only slightly less hot than earlier, but just as humid, and a thin sheen of sweat quickly formed on his forehead. Sam could see the lone light in the parking lot, seeming to float roughly 15 feet above the edge of the playground – moths and various other flying insects swarming in its glow. It didn’t do much for lighting the parking lot, but it was enough for Sam to see to make his way by.

His shoes were silent on the asphalt of the parking lot, and he wasn’t sure it was only his imagination that with each step there seemed to be a slight “bounce” to the ground; the asphalt soft and pliable beneath him – melted a bit, he thought.

It wasn’t until he was almost to the short fence that surrounded the motel playground that he noticed there was already someone there; it was the blond kid from earlier, swinging lazily on one of the two intact swings. Sam paused just short of the fence and the reach of the illumination of the lone light. It took him only a brief moment to determine he wasn’t in the mood to be friendly to the strange kid, so Sam started to turn away. That was when the kid actually called out to him.

“You can come in,” he said, “it’s a free country ya know.”

“I know,” Sam grumbled under his breath as he turned back, pausing just one more moment before crossing through the opening in the low fence and sitting down on the second swing. The third swing hung from only one chain, dangling like a corpse from a hangman’s noose. It moved listlessly in the mild evening breeze, creaking and squeaking ever so slightly as it swayed.

“I’m Kade,” the kid said.

“Sam.”

The kid nodded and a silence fell between them. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, but when the mosquitos started swarming, Sam started to slowly swing back and forth, noticing Kade following suit. For the next ten minutes or so, the two of them swung back and forth, the creaking and groaning and constant shower of rusty flakes from the swing set causing no alarm to rise in their minds.

What finally made them both cease was the blond woman, appearing outside and yelling for Kade to come in.

Sam stopped pumping his legs and let himself slowly drift to a stop. Kade did the same.

“That’s my mom.”

Sam nodded.

“So, I’ll see ya ‘round,” Kade said as he stood. 

“Yeah, see ya,” Sam replied, pushing his damp hair back from his sweaty face, his hand dirty with rust and grime, and watching Kade head towards his mother, a slight limp in his step.

 

* * *

 

The following morning, Sam woke up to find their dad back. He was slumped over and snoring lightly in the worn armchair in the far corner of the room. Looking across at the other bed Sam saw Dean, also still asleep. The clock on the nightstand between them glowed in bright red numbers, 6:43 AM.

As quietly as he could, Sam climbed from bed and set out to make breakfast. Thankfully, there were a few groceries in the fridge, specifically some eggs and milk. The scent of the eggs cooking soon had Dean and his dad stirring, but when Sam started brewing the coffee, both got right up, bleary-eyed though they were.

Over breakfast their dad told them about the job. A straight-forward poltergeist haunting, he said. Dean begged to go along, but their dad refused him, telling him to just stay with Sam, that he’d be able to finish the job quicker if he just worked it alone.

“It shouldn’t be more than another day or so,” he’d added when Dean began to argue.

“But-,” Dean began, but was cut off.

“No, Dean. Just watch out for your brother,” their dad growled and Dean huffed.

Sam wanted to tell his dad he didn’t need babysitting by his older brother; he was old enough to stay by himself and if Dean wanted to go he should, but he knew it would do no good. His dad would only get mad and then there’d be an argument and really there was no reason to borrow trouble. So, Sam remained silent, Dean sulked, and their dad left without anything more to say on the subject.

A few hours later, Sam was back out at the playground. Dean had left, walking down the street to the gas station for a few more provisions, making Sam promise not to leave the motel room until he got back. The moment Dean was out of sight, though, Sam was out the door and into the sun – brutal and hot though it was – because anything was better than staring at the walls of that room. They felt confining, like they were closing in on Sam intending to trap him there, in the life they emulated, forever. At least outside there was fresh air, and space, and semblance of normalcy, temporary though it might be. There were no piles of guns on the table to be cleaned, or bloody clothes to be washed up and patched. There was just…youth, and freedom – even if the freedom was really just an illusion.

Not too long after Sam sat on the swing, Kade appeared. He was wearing the same clothes as the day before – but then again, so was Sam.  

“Hey,” Sam said and Kade offered a tight smile.

“Hi,” he responded, moving slowly and sitting down on the other swing.

Sam felt beads of sweat that had been forming at his hairline start to move slowly down his forehead, and he shook his head gently, annoyed. The beads fell, dripping into his eyes and onto his nose and with a soft sigh Sam wiped them away.

“So do you live here or something?” Sam asked, turning to Kade, intent to do more than just swing in silence.

“Nah,” Kade answered, “Omaha.”

“Oh,” Sam nodded, pumping his legs just enough to gain some momentum and with it some slight relief, a soft breeze associated with his movement.

“Are you on vacation?” Sam asked after a bit, feeling beads of sweat trickling down his back.

“No,” Kade replied, but he didn’t elaborate and Sam didn’t push for more.

They swung back and forth for a while, until Sam saw Dean appear around the corner of the motel into the parking lot, carrying two plastic bags that appeared to be bursting. Sam watched his brother’s easy expression harden when he saw him.

“Shit,” Sam sighed and when Kade looked at him questioningly he nodded towards Dean’s approaching figure.

“My brother,” Sam elaborated, “I wasn’t supposed to leave the motel room.”

Kade didn’t respond, but Sam saw him level a narrowed gaze at Dean.

“Sammy,” Dean was at the fence now, and his tone was laced with warning.

“I know, okay?” Sam sighed. “I got bored. And that room is ugly and uncomfortable.”

Dean shook his head, but the disapproving look on his face softened somewhat.

“Just-,” his eyes darted between Sam and Kade, “be careful, okay? Don’t go anywhere else?”

Sam grinned and when Dean rolled his eyes and started towards their motel room, Sam gave a soft laugh.

“That was weird,” Kade said, causing Sam to laugh again.

“My brother _is_ weird,” Sam replied, wishing Kade could understand even a little how true that observation really was.

“Let’s see who can jump the farthest,” Sam said, suddenly energized despite the heat, pumping his legs rapidly and rising quickly into the air.

When he felt he was as high as he could get and when the swing was at its apex Sam launched himself into the air, flying for just the briefest of moments before landing on his feet with a loud grunting exhale. His momentum continued to carry him forward though, and he ended up on his hands and knees. The deep gravel substrate of the playground had somewhat lessened the impact, but not so much that Sam didn’t feel it travel through his body, reverberating in his bones. It wasn’t painful, rather it was invigorating and Sam felt truly alive. Twisting around, he sat back on his rear and beckoned Kade with his hands.

“C’mon!”

The blond boy swung back and forth a few more times before releasing, landing just a foot or so short of where Sam sat.

“Yes!” Sam exclaimed with both arms reaching towards the sky, “I win!”

Kade looked up from where he was crouched in the gravel, on his hands and knees as Sam had been after he’d jumped. But something in the look on his face dissipated all the joy from Sam’s body.

“What?” Sam sat up straight, his senses attuned to the fact that something wasn’t right.

“I just-,” Kade gasped, breathless, “it hurts is all.”

“What hurts? Where?” Sam crab-crawled towards Kade, suddenly frightened that he’d goaded his new…friend?...into jumping off a swing and breaking his leg, or something worse.

Kade sat back on his butt. With a look at Sam he then pulled up the leg of his jeans exposing a giant bruise, covering almost his entire calf. It was a deep, dark black, with slight purpling on the edges. It looked very fresh and suddenly it made sense why Kade had looked to be limping the night before, and why he was wearing long pants on such a hot summer day. Not that Sam would have even questioned it, after all he was wearing jeans too, but that was simply because Sam owned no shorts. There was no room for exposed skin in hunting.

“Holy…,” Sam whispered, his voice fading.

Kade sighed heavily.

“It’s why my mom brought me here,” he said, pulling his pant leg back down and hiding the awful bruise from sight.

“She thinks it was my dad. That he hit me. Even though I told her a thousand times it wasn’t.”

“Um,” Sam bit his lower lip, unsure of what to say in response. “Are you sure it wasn’t?”

Kade narrowed his eyes at Sam, “Yeah, I’m sure. I think I would know. He might get mad and yell sometimes, but he doesn’t hit me. And besides, all dads yell.”

“Yeah. My dad yells sometimes too,” Sam offered his agreement and Kade’s expression cleared some.

“But my dad didn’t do it,” Kade reiterated.

“Then what happened? Why doesn’t your mom believe you?” Sam asked, brushing his hair back from his sweaty face.

Kade glanced over his shoulder towards where the beater minivan was parked, before turning back to face Sam. He breathed in deeply then raised the hem of his t-shirt, revealing another large bruise around his ribcage, only this one looked a few days older – it had a lot more green and yellow at the edges, the middle a more bluish-purple – not the deep purplish-black like the leg bruise had been.

Sam raised his eyebrows at Kade, who dropped his shirt and proceeded to pull up his left sleeve, revealing a third bruise, this one in the very distinct shape of a hand. It, too, was somewhat faded, but still looked really painful.

“She just doesn’t believe me,” Kade said.

“But why not?” Sam pressed, the hunter instinct inside him thrumming, unbidden though it was. If it wasn’t his dad…

“She just doesn’t, okay,” Kade said, his tone more aloof; defensive even.

“But someone is hurting you,” Sam said slowly, cautiously. His instincts that this was possibly something supernatural growing stronger, even as he wished it wouldn’t be true.  Surely if it were a person, another kid or something, Kade would gladly tell someone.

Kade shrugged, and Sam sighed inwardly.

“It doesn’t matter. Just forget it,” Kade stood slowly, and Sam followed suit.

“You can tell me,” Sam said softly.

Kade looked at him, and Sam could see him debating with himself.

“You won’t believe me,” Kade finally said, brushing his jeans of the gravel dust that had accumulated. Sam could see him wincing as his hand touched the bruised leg.

“I will believe you,” Sam said as earnestly as he could, “I swear.”

Kade’s pale blue eyes stared at Sam for what felt like an eternity before he sighed.

“I think my house is haunted,” he started and Sam sighed inwardly. Even as he’d sensed it would be, he had also hoped it wasn’t going to be something supernatural.

“Aren’t you gonna laugh?” Kade said then, his voice quiet.

Sam shook his head, “I said I’d believe you. And I do. I’ve-,” he paused and considered how much to tell the other kid, finally settling on ‘as little as possible’, “I’ve seen ghosts before.”

Kade looked at him, some doubt in his expression.

“Oh,” he finally replied. “Um, have you ever seen ghosts that hurt people?”

Sam nodded slowly and he saw a wave of relief wash over Kade’s face.

Still, flashbacks of his first hunt – the ghost of a woman who’d been burned alive by her husband – playing in his head. Three people had died before Sam, Dean, and their dad had been able to find her remains and destroy them.

“There’s a ghost of a kid in my house, and he shows up at night and hits me with a baseball bat,” Kade’s expression was desperate, pained.

“It started about a week after we moved to Omaha from Oklahoma,” Kade moved to sit on the swings, and Sam followed.

Toeing at the dusty gravel beneath the swing, Kade stared at his feet as he talked. Sam didn’t interrupt him, listening intently to gather any clues. This was his first time learning of a real case, all on his own, and even though everything in his body told him he had to get away from his dad and hunting as soon as he possibly could, he also couldn’t ignore the fact that Kade needed help. What he was dealing with was not fair, and dangerous, and Sam was compelled to help, regardless of how he felt about hunting.

As Kade told it, he and his parents had just moved to Omaha from Oklahoma, and it had been just after their first week in the house that things had started happening. He’d awoken to find a pale-faced, angry boy standing over him with a baseball bat in his hands. He had swung it once and hit Kade in the side before he’d disappeared. If not for the immense pain of the attack, Kade had told Sam, he would have thought what he’d seen had just been a bad dream.

Kade didn’t tell his mom or his dad about what had happened, and had done his best to hide the bruise that appeared the next morning. Two nights later the kid showed up again, swinging at Kade’s shoulders. The next night he was there again, taking aim at Kade legs.

The angry kid, the boy, didn’t appear with any sort of regularity or reason, and Kade didn’t know what to make of his presence at all. He had never really believed in ghosts, but now there was one, and it was hurting him, and he didn’t know what to do about it – all he knew was no matter where in the house he slept, the kid always seemed to find him. He was terrified to go to sleep, and growing anxious and weary and his mother was starting to notice. Kade could see her watching him and it made all the stress of the situation even worse.

The first time his mother saw the bruising though, Kade had been able to explain it away. He had fallen off his bike, he’d said. But when the handprint bruise appeared a few days later she grew suspicious and started asking more specific questions about who he played with in the neighborhood, and about his dad.

Then, a few nights after that Kade and his dad had had a big fight over Kade playing baseball (Kade didn’t want to – he never wanted to see another baseball bat for as long as he lived) and the lady who lived next door had wasted no time coming over later to tell his mom about the fight. The following morning was when the calf bruise showed up and there was nothing Kade could say to convince his mom that it hadn’t been his dad hurting him.

Then, while his dad had been gone at work, she had packed up the old minivan and they’d left.

“I don’t know where we’re going,” Kade said, “but I do know we aren’t going home, and we aren’t staying here.”

“Have you tried telling your mom about the ghost?” Sam asked, knowing it was a dumb question – adults never believed in that sort of thing, and certainly not when coming from a kid.

Kade just shook his head.

“Kade! Lunch!” A woman’s voice called across the parking lot; Sam and Kade both turned to look.

“I should go,” Kade stood offering Sam a tiny, crooked smile.

Sam nodded and watched Kade go. There was so much he’d wanted to tell the other kid; about his dad and his brother and their life hunting ghosts (among other things), but he’d kept quiet. There was no use in promising Kade something he wasn’t sure he could deliver.

Sam sat for a few more minutes, feeling anxious, and unsettled, and confused about what to do next. He needed help, but for some reason the idea of talking to his dad about Kade’s situation only made Sam feel worse. 

Beads of sweat rolled down Sam’s forehead, finally driving him back indoors to the relative comfort of the motel room A/C.

* * *

 

“I don’t want to cut your damn hair,” Dean groaned. “Why can’t you go to the barber shop?”

“There’s not a barber shop or a Great Clips or anything for ten miles at least,” Sam held out the clippers. “Just do it, okay?”

“I can _borrow_  a car and drive you,” Dean countered, using finger-quotes.

Sam moaned with frustration. It was early afternoon. He’d eaten some leftover pizza and tried to find something on the television to watch but daytime TV just held no appeal for him. His entire body felt clammy and gross, and every time Sam turned his head he smelled sweaty hair. Then he’d remembered his dad had an old set of clippers and suddenly the long hair was no longer a problem, if he could convince his brother to help him out and just shave his head for him!

“Yeah, right, so you can get arrested? That’d make dad real happy. C’mon Dean. Just do it,” Sam thrust the old set of clippers their dad had been using on Dean for as long as Sam could remember in his brother’s face, waving them back and forth until his brother finally grabbed them from him.

“Jesus. Fine,” He growled, standing from the bed and tossing the **Guns & Ammo** magazine he was reading to the side.

“Go sit down,” Dean pushed Sam towards one of the straight-backed chairs at the small table, “and I won’t promise this’ll look good.”

“I don’t care, just cut it off,” Sam sat down obediently, taking off his t-shirt so the loose hair wouldn’t get stuck in it.

Dean sighed dramatically from behind, and Sam rolled his eyes. Finally, after about a minute, Sam felt a tug at his hair and then the clippers started buzzing. The sensation of it, at first, was strange, but quickly the buzzing and slight pulling of the clippers gave Sam immense relief. He really didn’t even care how bad it looked, he just wanted all that hair gone so his head could breathe again.

Ten minutes later there was a pile of brown hair on the floor around Sam and his head felt lighter, and most importantly, cooler.

“There,” Dean set the clippers on the table and moved to stand in front of Sam, staring at him silently.

“Well,” Dean nodded, head tilting slightly, “it’s cut anyway,” he smirked.

Sam replied with mock laughter before he stood and went into the bathroom to check it out. It was about as bad as he expected, shorter, and a little uneven but it didn’t look too terrible… not really. And in any case, at least it wouldn’t fall down his forehead or into his eyes any longer, or trap the heat either.

Staring at himself in the mirror, Sam suddenly thought about what Kade had told him that morning. Sam had been trying to figure out what he could do and was quickly realizing he would have to tell Dean and his dad if he had any hope of really helping.  

“Hey, Dean?” Sam came out of the bathroom to find Dean half-heartedly “sweeping” Sam’s hair cuttings into a pile…using his booted foot.

“What,” he didn’t look up as he continued to ‘sweep’ the floor.

“I…uh…do you remember that kid I was with earlier?” Sam asked as he pulled his t-shirt back on.

“Yeah,” Dean grabbed a paper plate from the counter and tried to scoop up the pile of hair he’d formed, getting only about half onto the plate before cursing under his breath.

“He was…I mean he says he was attacked by a ghost,” Sam said and at that Dean paused, looking up at Sam with a curious expression.

“More than once,” Sam added. 

Dean dropped the paper plate and straightened up, “Tell me everything.”

 

* * *

 

Sam and Dean were sitting at the table when their dad came through the door of the motel. It was just after 8pm.

“What’s all this?” he asked.

Sam looked between Dean and his dad as the latter kicked off his boots and sank into the third chair. He then reached out and grabbed the bottle of beer Dean had been nursing, taking a long swig.

“You shouldn’t drink this,” he said to Dean, but to Sam his tone lacked any real authoritativeness.

“Tell him,” Dean prompted, nudging Sam in the shoulder.

“Tell him what,” his dad said before he tipped the bottle up again, draining it.

“Sam found us a case right here! Well, not right here. In Omaha, actually…tell him Sammy,” Dean grinned and for a brief moment, Sam felt embarrassed by Dean’s apparent pride.

“A case, huh,” John stood and pulled another beer from the fridge.

“Yeah. Uh, I guess. See, this kid I met told me he’s been attacked by a ghost in his house,” Sam started, but the expression on his dad’s face, seemingly amused, gave him pause.

“And?” His dad prompted after a short silence, eyebrows lifted expectantly.

“Um,” Sam glanced to Dean briefly, “and it hurt him. The ghost. It, uh, it left all these bruises on him. His mom took him away from home because she thinks his dad is hurting him. But it’s this ghost. So…you know. We should go there. To Omaha. And kill it.”

“The ghost. We should kill the ghost I mean,” Sam finished, feeling completely frustrated. He’d had no problems relaying it all properly to Dean, why the hell couldn’t he properly tell his dad the same story?

Eyes flickering between his dad and Dean, Sam slowly realized he already knew what was going to happen. He could see it on his dad’s face. He could see that no matter what he’d said, no matter that Dean believed him, they would not be going to the house in Omaha and they would not be killing this ghost. The calm expression on his dad’s face was all Sam needed to see to know that.

“Sounds like a good story, but are you sure the kid isn’t lying?” his dad finally asked.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Sam replied evenly, trying to keep his frustration in check.

“How are you sure? Didn’t you just meet him?”

“Dad-,” Dean started but Sam cut him off.

“I believe him because it’s the truth and he needs help. Aren’t we supposed to help people? Isn’t that what we do?” Sam asked unable to disguise the anger and disappointment he felt, and he saw his dad’s amused expression fade.

It was frustrating, because his dad wanted him to be a hunter – was training him to be a hunter – and yet when Sam tells him of a real, honest to God case, his dad just dismisses it. Sam didn’t know what to do, or feel. Was he a hunter, or was he just a kid not to be taken seriously?

 _What did his dad see when he looked at him?_ , Sam wondered.

“I’ll be done with this job tomorrow. And then we’re out of here. Nothing more to say about it,” he drained the beer he’d just pulled from the fridge, then stood and started towards the bathroom, rubbing Sam’s head as he passed.

“Where’d all your hair go?” he said before he went into the bathroom and closed the door. Sam heard the shower come on a few minutes later.

“He never listens,” Sam grumbled, feeling disheartened and upset. Kade wanted to go home, and Sam wanted to help him. Wasn’t that what hunters were supposed to do? Help people who were in danger? Why couldn’t his dad understand that? Why couldn’t his dad believe him!

“I’ll talk to him, Sammy,” Dean said, his tone soft. 

“Whatever,” Sam murmured, staring at the chipped and stained Formica tabletop. He really didn’t think it would make any difference.

 

* * *

 

Sam didn’t ask where or how Dean obtained the car. He only asked if it was going to be reported as stolen and get them in trouble. When Dean flashed him an exasperated look, Sam guessed the answer was no; at least he hoped the answer was no. They drove into Lincoln, headed to the public library to do some research. Their dad had left earlier that morning, leaving them with instructions to get their stuff packed up and ready to go because when he got back that evening he intended to hit the road immediately. Apparently Bobby had contacted him about a possible werewolf in Northern Michigan.

Of course as soon as their dad was gone, Dean was pulling Sam out the door and a little while later, just after 10am, they were pulling up to the library. Inside, they went straight to the Reference section where they both began pulling out microfiche records of old newspapers from in and around Omaha.

Sam desperately wanted to help Kade, and was glad he had Dean’s help (even if he wasn’t sure how strongly Dean believed him). He was relieved he had his brother to count on, and for a moment Sam felt a deep despairing sadness at the eventual loss – because when Sam left his dad it would mean leaving Dean, too. But Sam didn’t want to live his life as a hunter so he had to go, someday, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t be hard to leave his brother…it was all too muddled and confusing! Sam shoved the thoughts away and focused on the task at hand; tracking down the potential spirit haunting Kade’s home.

“Got it, Sammy,” Dean called out a few minutes later, and Sam peered over his brother’s shoulder to read the fuzzy print of the archived article.

In 1976 a 16-year old kid who’d had an extensive record of violent and abusive behavior towards his parents, his brothers, and various schoolmates (all of it on record and laid out bare in the newspaper article), beat his youngest brother to death with a baseball bat. He’d gone into a fit of rage because when the teen had gotten home from baseball practice, the younger boy had left his bike in the driveway of the house and the teen had hit it with his car, denting the bumper. The young boy, Zach, had been reading Superman comics in his bedroom – what had likely been Kade’s bedroom more recently – when the attack had happened.

“I guess the good news is this ghost kid hasn’t become an actual killer. Yet,” Dean said after they’d read the story through.

“But we still gotta get rid of him. Who knows how many kids he’s already hurt, not counting Kade,” Sam replied and Dean nodded.

They found, in the same Omaha paper and published a few days after the initial news article, the obit which reported where Zach was to be interred. Thankfully, he had been buried locally, in a small cemetery just outside Omaha.

“How are we supposed to dig up a grave in the middle of the day?” Sam asked as they left the library and got back into the car, “you know dad isn’t gonna let us go do it tonight, after he gets back.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean replied as he turned the car around to head back to their motel. “Let me figure it out.”

Hours later, Sam was pacing the motel room and Dean still didn’t have a plan, or at least not one he was telling Sam about.

“Dad will be back anytime,” Sam said, his anxiety levels rising with each passing minute.

Kade needed their help – hell, if another family moved into that house with kids the same thing would happen to them, Sam was sure of it! This wasn’t just about Kade anymore, and Sam felt an increasingly overwhelming need to just make sure the house was safe, and that meant finding the grave and digging up the bones so they could be salted and burned.

“I know, Sammy” Dean said in return, and Sam could hear exasperation in his voice.

Sam couldn’t really be angry with Dean – at least his brother had given him the benefit of the doubt. Their dad seemed to refuse to even consider the idea of a kid ghost; and Sam wasn’t sure if that was because it’d been him who’d told him about it, or because his dad didn’t think kid ghosts were real, or what. But that was dumb – and Sam had a hard time believing that in all the years his dad had been hunting, he’d never come across a vengeful spirit of a child. But then again, maybe he really hadn’t.

Sam continued to pace the room; it was nearing 6pm, and their dad would probably be back at any moment and he’d make them leave. Kade would never see his dad again, and some other kid, someday, would fall prey to the angry ghost boy and probably be killed, and that wasn’t an acceptable outcome for Sam.

It was a strange feeling, this urge to hunt. Sam had never felt it so strongly before and as much as he didn’t want to spend his life living like his dad hopping from motel-room to motel-room, he also <i> _needed </i>_ to make sure they did this one hunt.

Just then, as if on cue, the telltale sound of the Impala’s exhaust reached Sam’s ears and he felt his spirits sink. Dad was back, which meant he’d make them pack up and leave.

“Shit!” Dean stood from the table and peered out the ratty curtain.

“Okay, just follow my lead,” Dean said over his shoulder as he backed up from the window and stood slightly ahead of Sam, facing the door.

A few minutes later their dad came through in. His clothes were dusty and he had a dried up, bloody gash on his forehead, but otherwise looked no worse for wear.

“You boys ready to go?” He asked without even closing the door or saying hello.

“No. Not just yet,” Dean replied slowly and Sam watched as their dad’s eyes narrowed and moved around the room. They’d done a little bit of packing, but everything was still mostly out and strewn about.

“I told you boys to be ready to go when I got back,” he closed the door and crossed his arms over his chest. “What have you been doing all day if not packing up?”

“Listen, Dad, Sammy was right about this ghost – and we really need to take care of it before we leave,” Dean persisted. Sam could hear a slight hint of desperate fear in his brother’s voice. Dean rarely, if ever, stood up to their dad and so Sam couldn’t blame him if he was feeling a bit of trepidation over it.

“Really,” their dad said, slightly condescendingly Sam thought.

“Yes,” Dean stated emphatically, “and Omaha is on the way to Michigan so I really don’t see what the problem is.”

Their dad stared at them, and Sam felt the strength of that gaze pierce through to his soul. But if Dean could stand up to him about this, then Sam could too.

“We went to the public library in Lincoln and found out that in seventy-six a little boy was beaten to death by his older brother. With a baseball bat. And the ghost that was hurting Kade used a bat,” Sam interjected.

“You went to the library? In Lincoln?” Their dad’s expression hardened and Sam regretted revealing that little tidbit. For whatever reason, their dad always got really angry when he found out Sam or Dean didn’t stay inside the motel the entire time he was out on whatever job he was working.

“Yes, but that’s not the point,” Dean moved a few steps forward. “We need to go burn this kid’s bones. We need to put this kid to rest before he actually starts killing people. We’re lucky we caught this one early; that Sam caught this one early.”

Sam felt his cheeks flush at Dean’s praise – even though he had done nothing but happen to befriend a kid who had felt safe enough to tell him something that most other people would have laughed at; it was heart-warming to know his brother was proud of him.

“No one has died yet,” Sam said, moving to stand next to Dean and imploring his dad with his eyes to just believe him, “we can make sure no one ever does die.”

The silence stretched out endlessly; or at least it felt that way to Sam. He could sense the tension in Dean’s body, matched only by his own, even as he stared at his dad – holding his gaze and willing him to just let them do this; willing him to believe him.

“Okay. Sure. Fine,” their dad said finally, looking between them.

Sam felt relief flood his body and he exhaled, offering a slight smile to his dad which was not returned. He didn’t seem angry – but his expression was hard to read. Still, Sam thought he saw something of pride in his look – though he couldn’t be sure. He’d never been that good at reading his dad.

A bit later, after they had packed most of their clothes and supplies back into the Impala, Sam headed over to the room Kade and his mother had been staying in. He didn’t see the beater minivan parked out front, but he hoped maybe Kade was in the room on his own. He knocked and waited several minutes but there was no answer.

Heading into the motel office, Sam smiled at the elderly man behind the counter. The old man returned the smile and Sam noticed he was missing several teeth.

“What can I do ya for, son?” he asked, his cadence and tone cheery and light.

“The people in room 5A, are they still here?” Sam asked and though there had been no other guests at the motel in the several days Sam and Dean and their dad had been there, the old man still drew his eyebrows together in apparent consideration of Sam’s question.

“Well now, let me think,” he said before he pulled a small box towards him, out from under the overhanging counter.

“Five A, five A,” he repeated over and over as he thumbed through the cards inside the small box. Some of them were so colored with age Sam wondered how long they’d been in there, and if they’d ever actually been white.

Finally the old man stopped and pulled out a crisp, white card. He brought it close to his face, peering over his thick glasses and squinting at whatever was written there. It was all Sam could do not to reach across the desk and grab it from the old man just so he could get the answer to his question that much faster.

“Looks like they checked out earlier today,” the old man lowered the card and looked at Sam, “sorry son. They’ve gone.”

Sam scrubbed his hands over his now short, badly cut hair in frustration. All he had wanted was to make it safe for Kade to go back home. But now…

“Do you have a piece of paper and an envelope?” Sam asked.

Sam decided not to tell Dean or his dad that Kade and his mother were gone. And before he went back to the room he wrote a letter to Kade’s dad explaining the ghost, and the bruises, and everything. He explained that after that very night – the date on the letter – it would be safe for Kade to return home. He wasn’t entirely sure the man would believe the things Sam wrote, but if the guy knew he hadn’t hurt his own kid, then he just might believe it had been a ghost.

The unknown factor of whether Kade and/or his mother would ever contact the dad again was what gave Sam the most anxiety. In conjunction with that was not knowing what the mother would do; even if she called Kade’s dad, would she believe what he might tell her? Would she believe that Sam, his older brother, and his dad had sought out and put to rest a tortured spirit of a little boy who been beaten horribly by someone he’d undoubtedly loved and trusted? Sam just couldn’t be sure.

He just had to hope she would believe, and she’d take Kade home.

 

* * *

 

Six hours later, as the clock neared midnight, Sam found himself standing in front of the headstone of one Zachary Christopher Walters, 1965 – 1976, “A loving son and brother” etched in stylized cursive beneath the dates.

The cemetery was old, and quiet, lined on three sides by rows of large, tall oaks, their leaves gently rustling in the slight, warm breeze that wafted through them. The fourth side, the entrance, faced the road they’d come in on and was unobstructed. Thankfully, Zach’s gravesite was behind a small rise and they were partially hidden from view should anyway come traveling down the dark two-lane highway.

“Well?”

Sam looked from the headstone to his dad, who was holding out a shovel and staring at him expectantly.

“This is your case, Sam, you get to do the honors,” his dad added and Sam nodded, reaching out and taking the shovel from him.

“I’ll help you, Sammy,” Dean said, picking up one of the shovels from the remaining two on the ground. They’d brought three shovels from the car – but it would seem his dad was intent on letting Sam do most of the work on this one.

It was his first grave; his first “salt and burn”. He felt a mixture of adrenaline and disgust. A desire to do the job as well as a desire to run screaming from the cemetery and his dad and his brother and the hunting life he knew he did not want. But the desire to help Kade was stronger – so Sam buried the other feelings and focused on that – on the “helping”.

It was harder than he’d imagined; the digging. He was thankful for Dean’s help, and that his hair was cut short. Between the two of them they managed to get the grave dug in two hours. When the casket was unearthed, Sam straddled it, barely managing to break it open. He could feel his dad’s eyes on him, watching him and God help him Sam wanted to impress him. So he grunted and groaned and muscled the crowbar into the casket with all his strength. When he heard the satisfying creak and the sound of the lock break, he sighed with relief.

The boy’s remains made him seem small, younger than the 12 years he would have been, and Sam tried not to took too closely as he sprinkled salt over his bones before dousing the interior of the casket with lighter fluid. Dean helped Sam out of the hole and his dad held out a book of matches to him.

Sam looked up to his dad as he took them, and for a moment he thought he saw a gentle smile play across his face, but then  as quickly as it was there it was gone. His dad’s face once again a blank canvas.

Sam struck a match, using it to light up the entire book before tossing the flame into the grave. The heat from the instant conflagration warmed Sam’s already hot and sweaty skin and he took a step back instinctively.

The three of them – Sam, his brother, and his dad – stood in silence and watched the flames until they burned out.  Sam couldn’t help but think about Zach, and the tragedy of his story; and then Kade, and the unfairness of his story; and then himself, and the trap he was caught in – a different type of tragedy for his story.

“Okay. Let’s fill it up and get going,” his dad said as the last few embers in the blackened casket burnt alternating red and orange. Picking up a shovel he sank it into the large pile and dropped the dirt back onto the grave; the casket still open. Sam exchanged a look with Dean, his brother winking and grinning at him before picking up his own shovel and joining his dad.

Filling in the grave went much quicker than emptying it, and in thirty minutes they had the hole filled up.

Sam rested against his shovel and wiped at his brow – feeling the dirt and grime that coated his face. He’d done it; he’d “killed” the ghost. It hadn’t been anything big, or dangerous, or complicated; but it had been his, and he felt a bit of pride for it. There was an immediate sense of relief, but also a sense of being driven, of being pointed towards a destination he didn’t wish to reach – feeling like he was travelling further down the road of life as a hunter; a life he knew he did not want for himself.

“Right. Let’s hit the road,” his dad said, slapping Sam on the back before picking up the duffel bag of supplies and two of the shovels and walking towards the shadowy husk of the Impala, parked on the narrow cemetery road a few hundred feet away.

“Good work, Sammy,” Dean grinned, rubbing his hand over Sam’s freshly shorn head.

Sam grinned back, but it felt forced. He was glad he’d helped out Kade, but not knowing if what they’d accomplished would actually improve Kade’s situation made it hard for Sam to celebrate.

“Boys! Let’s go!” their dad called from the car, and Sam, with one last look at the headstone, followed Dean back to the Impala.

Conflicting emotions flooded Sam’s head; would this be his life? Hunting? Or would he be able to get out like he so desperately wanted? Placing his shovel next to the others in the trunk of the Impala, he sighed.

Only time would tell.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for SPN Summergen 2014 (http://spn-summergen.livejournal.com/)


End file.
